i scrape my foot along the sloping underbelly curveof barnes and noble's first floor, close enough to the registers to hear thehave a nice day, not close enough to believe it.i spend a lot of time thinking about what i likeand i have trouble reading the blurry spines of your favorite books.

in case you needed me to set the scene:a girl with an ill-behaved coat bent over her armtapping slowly on her ipod over the books curling into her elbowsitting on a tiny wooden bench in the children's section,reading NC-17 fiction.then, browsing the african studies sectionso that she can stretch her peripheralsto the jumping shelves of the gay and lesbian literaturebut she flushes so hard she wanders away to breathe,quietly lets american history collar her.it calms her down anyway.

i haven't written anything in so long but that doesn't mean that i don't know how.tell me how words taste when i'm not trying. i know it shows – my attention is somewhere else.that's not what i'm asking.

i could make you crave any word if i wanted to make you desperatebut i have no commitment and i don't plan on following through on this.

someone make me feel.expect too much information in the future.

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